Sunday, December 15, 2013

Gratitude

As the holiday approaches I am filled with emotion.  Excitement, wonder, love, and sadness all fill my heart.  But the one thing I feel above all else is gratitude.

I think some expect me to be melancholy and humbugish about the whole season, (being as I am alone waiting for the finality of my divorce and I am not overtly close with my family), but I am not.  I am hopeful.  There are little things this year I will miss.  Going to the farm and picking out a tree, attending holiday parties, throwing holiday parties, decorating my home, and the like.   But alas I am only missing those things this one year.  For next I will be in a more permanent dwelling and will be surrounded by friends and some family who I can enjoy the holiday with all season long.

Although I am missing those few things at the moment, I am still going to have an excellent holiday.  I am going home to see people who love me and will embrace me, welcoming me into their homes for great conversation, excellent food, and tons of fun, relaxed company.  I will not be alone.  And for that I am grateful.

I have been seeing these gratitude lists all over the place this year.  I am not normally a fan of such lists, as I believe people should express gratitude for life everyday not just during the holidays.  But in the spirit of the season that so many seem to be in, I will share my brief and concise list here.

I am grateful I can control my body.  I am mobile and can do everything from feed myself, tie my shoes, bathe myself, drive my truck, and so on.  I remind myself everyday to be triumphant in these silly mundane things as they are more precious that we realize.

I am grateful for my friends.  I have a select few that I love to the core.  My friends are my family and have always shown me kindness, love, humor, and acceptance no matter where I was in my life.  Those who I speak of know who they are.  They offer me strength, support, guidance, and a kick in the ass when needed.  My world would be a very dark place without them.

I am grateful for love.  Yes, this might be a head scratcher coming from a woman in the midst of divorce, but it is true.   Love has saved me on more than one occasion.  Love helped me grow.  Love tended to me when I was ill.  Love sat at my feet and brought me comfort in fear and grief.  Love gave me courage. Love gave me hope.  I am lucky to know what its like to be loved.  Love has introduced me to myself.  More now than ever.  And that is a wonderful thing.  Love has taught me lessons I never thought I could learn.  So for it, I am grateful and believe I will know love all of my life, even if its just continuing to cultivate it within myself.

In looking at this next chapter, I am grateful.  For what I have lived and for the experiences to come.

And I am grateful for the time others give to me. So, to all of you who read this, thank you.





Saturday, November 9, 2013

Change

Its been eight months since I last blogged.  A great deal has happened in those eight months and I feel like I am ready to open myself again.

After the stroke, I spent tons of time thinking about my life and the direction I want it to go.  I've lamented long and hard on the life I had lived thus far, coming to the painstaking conclusion that my wants, my desires, and my happiness are mine and only mine to claim.  As much as I wanted to force myself to stay the course I was on, I simply could not.  I wanted to want to keep the status quo of my life and want the same things my husband, Keane wanted.  But I did not. I do not. 

I moved out of our home April 29th.  I filed for divorce September 30th.  I cried uncontrollably from September 30th until October 3rd. I broke down in the attorney's office in front of Keane and I was emotional toast.  I literally didn't stop crying.  I felt as if I never would.  I cried so hard I vomited twice in those four days.  I cried so hard my abdomen and back ached for a week after.  I had realized although I loved Keane and was grieving the end of our life together, I was also permitting myself to grieve every loss I had ever suffered.  The divorce was the emotional straw that broke the camel's back.  I grieved my father, my mother, my heinous relationship with my sister, every pet I'd ever lost, the years I lost not loving myself because I didn't know how, my stroke, and my divorce.  It was a painful and wretched four days.  But I survived it. 

Keane and I still talk regularly and share the responsibility of our four legged "children".  We have always maintained civility, amicability, and general kindness to one another despite any pain we may have caused.  Although I can not speak for him, nor would I try to, I am grateful that I am able to do my part in keeping things copacetic between us during all this.  It doesn't make it easier per se, but it does make it a little less awful.

Living alone again after fourteen years has been an interesting journey in and of itself.  When you are in a marriage you foster and maintain accountability to another person in all things.  For me, that is no more.  And it was a change that felt weird to embrace. I've been alone for six months now.  I am discovering more in my day to day while fostering relationships with others in my life, and most importantly myself. 

I still often wonder if there is a "why" I am here.  What am I to do with the second chapter at life?  I have set goals for myself and intend to live life as an adventure full of experiences, be them euphoric or hellish.  I look forward to the next season in my life and moving away from Harrisburg back to where my friends and family are, surrounding myself with people who love and are connected with me. 

It is important for me to acknowledge that I love Keane.  I respect Keane.  The fifteen years I spent with him helped shape the woman I have become.  The care and generosity of self he has given to me, especially during my recovery, are more than anyone could have ever asked of another person.  And I do have immense sadness, and even guilt, in leaving someone who has given me so much.  Yet my life is a gift to me and I chose to honor that gift by living truly and wholly for myself in the desire of finding peace and happiness.  It may seem selfish and obtuse to someone reading this who does not truly know me, but it is how I feel and the road in which I choose to follow.  Even as I know not where it may take me.

So I have found myself,  yet again, feeling the need to be open.  Which is why I write today.  I want to be an open soul to the world and embrace all the world cares to send me.  I am looking forward to the next chapter in my life and all the change it will bring.




Friday, March 15, 2013

Ink


We are the only species that isn't born with some natural adornment.  No spots, stripes, patterns, feathers, or plumage of any kind.  Yes we have skin and hair, and some of us have freckles or birthmarks, but it not really the same. 

Tattooing has become pretty mainstream over the last twenty years, but I've always has a fascination with body art.  When I was very little (when only bikers or whores has tats – as my old aunt used to say), I would stop and stare intently at the old guy at the diner that my dad used to take me to, who had a sleeve.  I would look at all the colors and lines trying to decipher the story he was telling on his skin.  As a little girl of five or six, It was a wonder to me how it all got there.

I began asking my mother if I could get a tattoo around the age of ten.  I asked her every year from ten until I was seventeen.  The answer was always the same; “You can get a tattoo on three conditions; you earn the money to pay for it yourself, you are eighteen years old, and you are no longer living under my roof”.  Every year I asked and every year mom gave me that standard line.  So when I turned eighteen, I had moved out and went off to college.  And for my eighteenth birthday my mom gave me money.  She looked me square in they eye and said, “I know where this money is going.  Please just tell me you bought clothes with it.”  Then she smiled and shook her head, knowing what a stubborn headstrong daughter she had raised.  I kissed her and replied, “Hey, two outta three ain't bad”. 

I had already scoped out the place I wanted to go.  Back then you didn't need appointments, consultations or all the booking that goes on today to get inked.  You just walked in and they put your ass in the chair and gave you what you wanted. 

I took the fifty bucks my mom gave me for my birthday (yes tattoos were much less expensive back then too) and went to the shop.  I knew what I wanted and where I wanted it; I just had to get a proper visual.

Here I sit almost 21 years later and I still have that little red devil with an “A” on its ass on my left hip.  Thankfully still in the same spot it was originally placed. Not the most distinguished piece ever inked but it still represents the young girl I was.  And how part of her stays with me as I have grown. 

My body has been adorned with ink three more times since then.  All my pieces are relatively concealed and have important significance to me.

As I approach my 39th year of life, I am going through a great deal of personal, emotional, financial, and physical changes.  My life since the stroke has reintroduced me to the person I sometimes forgot I was or was ashamed to be.  In the past few years I have embraced some things that have allowed me to try, I stress the word TRY, to become ok with myself.  I am still a work in serious progress, but as long as the progress continues I think I will be ok.

I decided for my 39th birthday I wanted to gift myself the expression of my continued evolution and strength.  I commissioned another piece, which will be, by far, my largest (and most expensive) to date.  It embodies a representation of what I strive for as a human being while embracing my love of certain things.  With that my desire for body art continues.  I look forward to nothing more than sitting in the chair and feeling the sting of the needle adorning me with color and pristine design, only to come away with an amazing representation of the mental and physical journey that is my life. 

For me, getting a tattoo is not about the destination, it’s about the journey.  This leg of my journey will have one hell of a reminder when it is all said and done.

Monday, February 4, 2013

Clarity


I find that in this journey of self-discovery I am doing more things for me.  It often feels quite wrong and selfish, but I am trying to explore myself in ways I never have before. It has been a very difficult thing to not only face the things I perceive as wrong with myself and my life, but it also sometimes hard to embrace what is right for me.  What I want, desire, feel that I need.  My goals for myself are not always necessarily in line with what others think they should be or even in tune with goals of other important people in my life.  Everyone is an individual.  Everyone has to do and know what is best for them.  I am still trying to figure that out.  I know what I WANT but I often question if my wants are in line with what I really need.  I don’t care to be, consciously or subconsciously, self destructive in any way.  I want to evolve.  Elevate.  Blossom.  Flourish.  I have no idea how to do that other than to continue this journey of honestly and self exploration through this blog.

I look back at the young woman I was when I was a college student.  I was wild, a ridiculously free spirit.  I had a ton of grown up responsibility but with that came immense freedom to do as I damn well pleased.   I didn't have the guidance and structure most kids my age did.  Now, I didn't go off to college and go on a hedonistic free for all.  I just made my day-to-day decisions as I wanted and committed myself to things that were of importance to me.  And I smoked a lot of pot LOL 

As an adult approaching middle age, I want to get back to that sense of freedom.  I do not desire a carefree life free of struggle and responsibility, but I desire the autonomy to be the only person affected by my decisions.  Of course I know that is hardly ever the case but it was for me at one time.  There are days I long for that again.  With that complete autonomy comes lots of fun, but also immeasurable loneliness. And trust me, I have experienced both.  It would be nice to find a balance. 

Balance.  That word keeps haunting me a lot. 

I am alive, among the living.  I want to start experiencing the gift of my life.  I am tired of planning, waiting.  My time is now.

Friday, January 25, 2013

Secret


Everyone has bad habits they can’t kick.  Smoking, nail biting, swearing, you name it someone does it relentlessly. The question is how do we stop?  How do we stop feeding the monsters that plague us? And why do they plague us in the first place?  The simple answer is that they are coping mechanisms. In my case, I've had many bad ones and have kicked just about all of them.  All but one.

The beauty of my habit is that no one ever sees it.  My habits no longer manifest themselves in physical ways.  There are no more bloody fingertips from constant nail biting, or scabs from scratching and picking my blemishes.  No, my habit is my dirty little secret.  Well, until now.

No one that knows me socially or on the surface would understand.  Or even be aware.  Hell, some people might even be flat out shocked.  The few people that know me intimately, my husband, my absolute closest of friends, they know.  I’m sure they don’t understand it fully, but they know.  I've managed to let those few people close enough to me to really see the damage.  Funny enough they still talk to me and seem to still want to be in my life.  And even though I constantly question it, I try to accept their friendship and love the best I can.

One of my dearest friends always tells me to I have to learn to accept myself.  As I am.  And as I have grown older I am continuously learning to do that.  I can accept all the parts of who I am good, bad, or indifferent.  But accepting myself and liking myself are two entirely different things.

I don’t know when it began.  I just remember it being there as long as I've had a memory.  This comfortable fall back habit I have.  My old faithful, my comfort zone.  The thing I can’t seem to give up, even as I evolve as a woman and come through the roughest of days.  It grips me and has me convinced of it.  It is my self-loathing.

Ok, let’s just say it now.  I sound insane and in need of mental help.  I assure you, however I am not insane.  I am very sane in fact.  I just don’t like myself very much.  I am sure if there were ever a couch to have me examined on, the doc would most likely have a field day cracking the inner thoughts of this skull of mine.  Now I am not suicidal and I have no desire to bring harm to myself.  I just find that in certain times of difficulty it is easier and much more logical to take the blame for the negativity in the situation and turn in completely inward.  I can go from zero to 100 in ten seconds flat.  I can throw my mind down a spiraling black hole of self-deprecation, doubt, and disgust.   I can find fault in every ounce of my being, believing the things and situations that are unpleasant would cease to exist if I were not involved with them.  I constantly think I am a terrible burden on my husband and sometimes my friends. 

And I have decided to write about it to own it. 

I am not looking for sympathy nor is there a need to inundate me with texts and phone calls.  I am fine.  Really, I am fine.  But I do know its not the norm and most people will think I am coo coo for cocoa puffs after reading this (if they don’t already).  This blog has allowed me to explore my recovery, my triumphs and my evolution.  It would be a farce to also not be honest about the things that are dark and not so warm and fuzzy.  When I began writing this blog just about a year ago this week, I promised anyone who read this 100% honestly.  Not just the funny and triumphant honesty, but the uncomfortable and embarrassing honesty as well.

So here it is.  I have never learned to like myself.

I don’t know why.  I just don’t. 

As I am now three years healthy I have to be truthful with myself.  If I want to move forward in my life and continue personal evolution I have to own this, explore this, and at the very least no longer be embarrassed about it.  I've spent a very long time trying to compensate for all the things I think I lack.  And it’s only made me feel worse about myself as I sit here thinking about how I really should be six feet under now.   The days I wonder why I didn't die in that hospital bed haunt me.  Why was that second chance given to me?  What am I supposed to do with it? 

I can’t explain when or how this frame of mind happened.  It just did.  I’m sure some would speculate about my parents dying when I was young or the distance between me and my other family.  How I have always been a loner at heart and spent much of my young life in sink or swim mode…. Yada, yada, yada.  I don’t look for reasons to justify it; I just accept it as my truth. 

I realize that this point of view towards myself isn't healthy and it’s not really appealing.  Well that’s totally fine.  I’m not trying to win any popularity contests.  I’m simply trying to accept myself and embrace my flaws.  There are oh so many of them.  This is simply one.  I don’t like myself. I can be confident in my intellect and the other strong qualities I possess, and can rile up a room because I am funny as hell.  I just can’t find enough kindness to love myself the way the healthiest of people do.  I focus on my flaws and give little credence to the good in me. 

I am loud, brash, blunt, and in my younger days, I was simply obnoxious.  I have matured out of the obnoxious but still have a big mouth.  And sometimes the inner censor, often fueled by my ever-short temper, gets turned off.  I am horribly impatient and can be ridiculously selfish. I can also be kind, compassionate, and I have the ability to empathize with anyone. But that is not the part of me most people see.

This old habit has been haunting me lately.  Between stress at work, a stifled and cracked marriage, and a broken foot that has kept me from anything physically productive or empowering I am left with my thoughts.  And folks, they aren't great. LOL I am fighting the urge to hide and sequester myself.  My instinct is to retreat.  I want to shutout everyone and isolate myself from the world so I can wallow in this pool of self-hatred.  But I’m not.  I’m doing the ridiculously insane opposite.  I am shouting from the rooftops how fucking horrible I feel.  In doing that at least, I am honoring this air I still have the privilege to breathe. 

And for me that is continued evolution.

Monday, January 21, 2013

Interrupted


The weekend before Thanksgiving I broke my foot.  It was stupid and I should not have been so careless but I was.  I fell on a friend’s bathroom floor in the middle of the night.  I landed so hard I fractured my second tarsal in two places and chipped a small bone under the ball of my foot.  I didn’t even think I hurt anything other than my ass, which I bounced off of, when I went back to bed. 

Even though I could barely put any weight on it then next morning, I still managed to enjoy my weekend and truck my ass all over Heinz Field for a Steelers game that Sunday.  I was not going to miss a live game because my foot hurt.  Then of course I drove the three hours home right after the game.  I certainly am paying the price for my stubbornness. Although I had it wrapped in an ace bandage, I should have stayed off of it.   

When I woke up Monday morning it was a bruised ball of flesh.  It looked awful.  I broke down and went to a local urgent care center to have x-rays done.  They confirmed the breaks and wanted to put me on crutches.  To which I responded, “Um, no.  I have to walk so give me a plan B”.  They offered me a walking boot, which I didn’t love but was a much better alternate to crutches.  I could walk freely on the boot and it absorbed shock so I could put weight on my foot to be mobile.  Of course it was my right foot so driving home was a feat.  Haha, a feat, get it?  Anyhow I as given a referral to an orthopedic doc and prayed that I was going to heal without any other issues. 

The ortho told me I needed to wear the boot for three more weeks (I had been wearing it about a week when he saw me), then I could wean off it slowly.  Which I did.  I had to go back in four weeks for follow up x-rays.  Which I did.  On my follow up visit he told me that I was ok to walk and drive ONLY. No exercise, no running, and no strain other than normal movement until I had SEVEN COMPLETELY PAIN FREE DAYS.  He said it should take another month or so to get to that point, so I was looking at end of January beginning of February.  I was relieved.

Being the impatient fuck that I am, two weeks ago my foot was feeling pretty good.  I had four really normal days.  Four not seven.  Yes, you know its coming.  I decided to hit the gym and try a little light cardio.  I had begun doing some upper body weight training a week earlier because I was going stir crazy without any exercise whatsoever.  I went about five weeks or so doing nothing and it was really getting to me. 

There is this wonderful machine that I have come to love at the gym.  It’s the Helix 3000.  It’s an elliptical type machine but pedals in a large circular motion from side to side rather than front to back.  I swear I can feel my hips and ass shrinking every time I am on it!  I love it.  It’s was a bit awkward at first, and a lot of people at the gym won’t get on it because either they think they look funny (which I am sure I do but I could care less), or they are afraid they lack the coordination to make a go of it.   My foot felt great and the Helix was calling me.  So I jumped on and told myself I’d give it five minutes.

Five minutes was all I could bear.  By minute three my foot began to tweak with a slight ache.  I pushed through the last two minutes to just get a warm up in.  When I stepped off the ball of my foot was throbbing, as was the top.  I figured I wasn’t ready and then went on to do my upper body workout.  I was limping by the time I left. 

So I figure that little stunt on the Helix put my recovery back about two weeks.  I feel pretty ok now but I am still not 100% in the foot.  I have soreness and every so often I move and it hurts, so I have to wait.

This is the first time since my recovery that I have been injured or hindered in any way physically.  And I clearly hate it.  The routine I have become accustomed to is not what I am able to do at the moment and its bothering the hell out of me.  I miss running. I desperately miss yoga.  And I miss my Helix 3000.  I am still doing weights and meditating to get through my mental anguish about being stifled but it’s not the same as balls to the wall running. Or stretching my body into a yoga pose that requires all my strength and fortitude.  But I remind myself to be thankful for what I CAN do and shut the fuck up about the rest.

The other thing that I am unable to do is wear heels.  High-heeled shoes.  How I miss my shoes!  I am relinquished to flat, sensible shoes for work and any other daily activity.  When I am home I am in bare feet as always, but man I love shoes.  Anyone who has met me knows this.  Luckily I have a very comfy, stylish, and, yes flat, pair of Coach fuzzy boots I bought myself for Christmas.  They are black (as is 85% of what I own) and have become my staple for work.  If it were warmer I’d have a slightly better selection of footwear for work that were “flat” but with winter not so much.

As is everything with me these days, dealing with this injury is a learning experience.  I am reminding myself constantly that this is a temporary injury and it could be much worse. I remind myself that almost three years ago at this time I was getting to ready to experience trauma I could never have imagined. So a broken foot isn’t such a big deal in the grand scheme of things. 

So I am impatiently waiting for the day to go for a run then put on a pair of four-inch heels for work.